


Let Me Be There

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [139]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, First Kiss, M/M, Musician Chris, Schmoop, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Chris needs some time alone on the road. At least, he thinks he does--until Seb offers to pour him a drink.





	Let Me Be There

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Music. Prompt from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

No one ever taught Chris how to sing, not properly. He just sort of picked it up. One minute he was humming along with the car radio and the next, he was shuffle-stepping his way across the stage in community theater. Funny how that works.

It’s not like his parents are tone deaf; his mom sang in the church choir, for instance, long after she stopped believing in God. Or the Church’s version of the All Mighty, anyway. And his dad still air-guitars his way through traffic, jamming along behind the steering wheel in the early AM Boston rush.

But neither of them is a _singer_ , neither of them thinks in scales and verses and rhymes. Where Chris got that from, nobody’s sure; but what he does with it, the life he’s made himself from it, there’s no mistaking that it’s all him.

 

*****

He meets Seb in the Dakotas, one of them, on the back end of a national tour. He’s not playing stadiums yet, just good-sized clubs, nothing crazy. His EP went viral and his LP’s rock solid on the charts; he’s making a name for himself, is Chris. He’s right there on the doorstep of big fame.

Seb doesn’t know any of that, doesn’t have the faintest idea who he is or what he’s doing in Pierre, why he’s standing in the back of an honest-to-god honky tonk on the far side of town. Chris had needed some air after his show, needed some time to himself, and a tour bus full of stir crazy claustrophobes offered...not that. They weren’t due to leave until four, though, and it was only quarter to one and so Chris had taken off in a taxi, asked the driver, a rough and tangle dude in a creased cowboy hat, to drive to whatever bar was his favorite and have a drink or six on Chris.

Which was how he’d come to be leaning against the bar at the back of _The Dry Well,_ beaming up at the stage, watching a couple of local guitar pokes go to town on some Hank and some Johnny, a little Merle Haggard and Crystal Gayle.

The place had the sleepy feel of overnight coming, of one beer too many, of cigarette smoke caught by the open windows and tugged out into the dark. And dark it was, too, all around;  _The Dry Well_  was a sentinel, a kind of stalwart, standing between human and prairie, between civilization, such as it was, and the long flat plans lulled to sleep by the wind.

Chris was on his second whiskey, straight, and he wasn’t smoking only because Rob, his base player, had stomped on his one and only last pack. _Tsk tsk_ , Rob had said the night before, grinning, grinding the Marlboro Reds under his boot. _No smoke till Brooklyn, kiddo. Them’s the rules. And you wrote ‘em_.

One more week and he’d be home free, could drag down as much as he liked, but goddamn if he wasn’t impatient, if he wasn’t dying to feel that featherweight in his fingers, see the flare of flame each time he drew breath.

God, he thinks, throwing back the last of the Jack, the last few dates are always the worst. Ready to be home but still thrilled to be loved every night, to have his own words sung back at him by crowds of people he’ll never know but who’ve memorized lines he wrote when his heart was breaking; when he was on top of the world; when he was in a pit of his own making. Maybe it should be terrifying, to hear himself stripped down every night, to feel people sing out what once was his most tender marrow, but for Chris, it’s exhilarating even now, after two months’ worth of shows.

He’ll be home for three weeks and then they’ll be out again, gone, off to Europe and Asia and a few dates in South America--his first international swing. It’s hard for him to believe it, to picture it, he and the band standing on stages in Tokyo and Prague and Buenos Aires, watching people stand up and sing along.

He gulps a little and sets down his glass. Bites back the jitters. That’s the plan, anyway. Who knows if it’ll actually go down that way?

Scarlett, his drummer, is certain it will. Mackie, his piano man, isn’t quite so optimistic.

And Chris? He scrubs a hand over his eyes, breathes in hard to pick up some smoke. He’s not sure yet. They’ll just have to wait and see.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. “Hey,” somebody says behind him. “You’re dry. Want another?”

Chris half-turns his head, expecting to see the blond bartender from earlier--all muscle and teeth and surfer-boy charm--but it’s a dark-haired guy with sharp blue eyes and a quirked eyebrow instead. His surprise must show on his face, even in the gloom, because the guy laughs a little, shaking his head.

“No, you’re not hallucinating,” the guy says. “Chris went off shift ten minutes ago. Had a date. I’m a soft touch; told him I’d clean up tonight.”

“That was nice of you.”

A shrug. “He worked late for me last week. I owed him. Anyway, he’s a damn good bartender and they’re not easy to find in this town.” He grins, a slow slide that takes up his whole face. “Not easy to keep, anyway.”

Chris blinks. “Oh. So, this is your bar?”

The guy pats the counter, gives a cute, scrunched-up smirk. “It is.”

“Oh,” Chris says again. Something about the man makes him feel itchy, kind of pleasantly nervous. Or maybe that’s just the empty stomach booze. “It’s, ah. Uh huh.”

Blue eyes sets his elbows on the bar and leans over a little like he’s sharing a secret, lowers his voice below now Skynard-shaped din. “You still haven’t answered my question, man.”

“What?”

The guy points. “You want another round or not? That glass of yours is looking awful lonely.”

“Honestly?” Chris says, because it’s that kind of o’clock in the morning. “I would kill for a cig.”

That smile again, like warm caramel. “Technically, this is a no smoking bar.”

Now it’s Chris’ turn to throw up an eyebrow. “Dude, come on. Seriously? This place is like a dragon’s lair.”

“Technically. I said _technically_.” The man pats his pockets, then reaches under the bar. “As in, everybody else breaking the rules is one thing. Me, upstanding owner that I am? I know better than that.” He comes up with a soft pack and a lighter, nods towards the back door. “Come outside with me and protect my reputation.”

 

Outside, the night is cool and still, the first hints of winter creeping up over the plains. It’s dark beyond the dull streetlight, the last sigil between the bar and what feels like the wild, and Chris tips back against the building for that first hot glorious drag.

“Been awhile?” Blue eyes is looking at him, clearly entertained.

Chris’ eyes are watering and his lungs feel like sandpaper. God, it’s fantastic. “What makes you say that?” he chokes out.

The guy looks away and lifts his own to his lips, take a short pull. “You sounded like you were kissing somebody you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.”

Chris laughs, the long of the night, the whiskey, the heady furl of tobacco too much to let that shit go. “You’ve been listening to too much old country, man, spitting out corny shit like that.”

“Seb,” the man says. “‘You’ve been listening to too much old country, _Seb_.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, waving his ash away, “that. And I’m Chris.”

Seb takes his outstretched hand, shakes it, and Chris squeezes back. “Nice to meet you, Chris.”

“You, too.”

They smoke in silence for a while, the thrum of the music inside neatly boxed up behind them. If Chris listens close enough, reaches back with his hand, he can feel the notes vibrating, the drunken edge of the song leaking through. But he doesn’t want to hear music right now, doesn’t want to think about songs; he just wants to be right here with Seb, right now.

And Seb seems good with that, too.

“Can I ask you something?” Chris asks after a while, as the filter approaches.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Aren’t you a little young to own a place like this?”

“Believe it or not,” Seb deadpans, “I am over 21.”

Chris laughs. “Not what I meant, now. Come on.”

Seb chuckles, too. “You mean, I’m too young to run an old fogies bar?”

“I mean, yeah. Pretty much. Don’t get me wrong, I do like it. A lot. I just”--Chris gestures with his cig, a drag of fire between them--“can’t help but notice that you’re like 30 years younger than most of your patrons.”

Seb shrugs, easy. “It was my mom’s place, truth be told. I kind of grew up here. Haven’t had the heart to change it, that’s all.”

“Oh, geez. Your, uh, mom, did she--?”

“No! No, man. Heh! No. She’s fine.” Seb gives him a grin. “Just got tired of it, that’s all. The hurly and the burly of it, you know. The grind. She lives on the other side of the city, near the college. Alive and well, I promise. She comes in sometimes when she’s bored, gets tired of running around the garden or whatever.” A sharp kick of his cig, a short flare towards the asphalt. “I mean, she doesn’t actually garden. Would probably be happier if she did. She’s the kind of person who needs like six hobbies, you know? Just to keep herself out of her head.”

“Ah,” Chris says. “Yeah, yeah. I get that.”

“What about you? What do you do?”

“Me?” A rush of blush up Chris’ throat, a sudden, unexpected sort of shy. “I, ah. I kind of sing.”

“Oh, cool. As a like a job or a hobby, or--?”

“A, um, a job.” He has the weird urge to hide his face in his hand.

“Wow.” Seb turns to face him, one shoulder edged into brick. “That’s pretty damn impressive. You must be good.”

“Got a good band,” Chris says, like he always does during interviews or press events when people pay him a compliment. “Believe me, that goes a long way.”

“Sure, but I’m talking about you. Great band ain’t worth shit if the front man can’t sing.” Seb jerks his thumb at the wall. “Trust me. I know.”

“I’m”--Chris takes one last hit and toss the filter on the ground, grinds it under his heel--“I do all right, I guess.”

Seb laughs. “I’m not gonna ask you to prove it, don’t worry.”

“I didn’t think that you were.” A pause. “Ok, I hoped that you wouldn’t. Was hoping real hard.”

“Are you from here? You don’t sound like you are.”

“No, from back east. Boston.”

“So you’re here for a gig?” It isn’t really a question.

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a minute; even the noise inside settles. It’s just them, for a moment, and the waning hours of the night.

Seb’s fingers find the edge of his shirt, a hint of warmth against his arm. “Are you gonna get back out this way, you figure?”

The weight of those fingers makes Chris’ lids heavy, heavy. Heavier still. “Not for a while, no. Maybe next year, I don’t know. Kind of depends on how things go.”

“Things?”

“The record. Depends on how the record does over time. It’s doing pretty good now, it’s just--yeah. It depends.”

Sebastian squeezes his wrist, sears his skin somehow through his clothes. “You always undersell yourself like this, Chris?”

“Like what?”

“I’m guessing you don’t when you’re on stage. I bet you fucking glow under the lights, huh? Don’t you, babe?”

Chris shivers and twists his arm until their hands catch, until their palms are pressed together, their fingers folded. “Can I ask you something, Seb?”

“Sure you can.”

“Would you kiss me?”

“If you want.”

Chris tugs him closer. “Would you take me home, or somewhere? I’ve only got a couple of hours. Maybe less.”

Seb makes a soft, hurt sound, the kind that sinks between Chris’ hips, the kind that makes his whole body alight. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Would you--?”

Seb smiles, stretches it up and over Chris’ chin. “Whatever the question is, babe, the answer is yes.”

“But,” Chris says, grinning back, his arm snaking around Seb’s neck. “I thought you had to close tonight.”

A snort and a smooch, messy on Chris’ throat, silly and wet. “You let me worry about that,” Seb says. “Huh? This is my goddamn bar.”

Chris dips his head and they’re kissing, hot and stupidly tender, out there in the dark, out there under the stars.  


*****

Later, when he's tucked up in his bunk on the bus, he stays awake past sunrise; watches the light creep up the streets, devour the rough, brown fields, settle up high in the sky.

"Hey," Rob says, popping up over the edge, his chin cutting into the mattress. "Where were you? I thought Scar was gonna send out the dogs."

"Just needed some time alone. You know."

"Uh huh." A beat. "Well. Nice to see you smiling, anyway."

Chris turns his head. "What? I smile, man."

Rob's mouth twitches. "Sure you do, kiddo. But it's been a long time since I've seen you smile like that."

_You can call_ _me,_  Seb had murmured, his lips nudging Chris' ear.  _If you want to._  

_You'd better believe_ _it._

_And you can come back any time you_ _want_. A kiss, firm and breathtaking.  _By which I mean, you'd better._

He'd taken Seb's face in his hands and leaned back, grinned up into those mid-July eyes. _How does three weeks sound_?

_Oh, good. So goddamn good. I mean, two days would be better. An hour, come to think of it, best, but--_

Chris had laughed, made Seb taste it, licked that smug little smirk off his face.

"Yeah," Rob says now, poking Chris in the shoulder. "Exactly. Like that."

He hops down, scuttles off, and Chris turns to the window, a line of notes running wild inside his head, and he falls asleep with them on the tips of his fingers, dreams of a stadium crowded with people singing Seb--Sebastian's--name.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a [Crystal Gayle song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOKe_9HHRSY) and groove from [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W20TtJNQr_Y) because that's where my head is this evening, it seems.


End file.
